


House of Cards

by rAnines (clockworkcorvids)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (eventual) - Freeform, AWBB, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Android Whump Big Bang, AndroidWhumpBigBang, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor Needs A Hug, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, FUCK PERKINS, Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hurt/Comfort, Machine Upgraded Connor | RK900, Nines has unhealthy (read: violent) coping mechanisms, Or twenty, Panic Attacks, Perkins is an ASSHOLE, Self-Esteem Issues, Whump, but people get hurt, from the bottom of my heart, hank is trying his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22018387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkcorvids/pseuds/rAnines
Summary: March 2039. The only RK900 model in existence, an incomplete prototype, is located, and Connor is entrusted with the task of awakening and deviating them. The first part is easy. The second part? Not so much. To say that the two of them started off on the wrong foot would be a gross understatement, but it seems that every time Connor tries to make amends, the situation with the still undeviated RK900 just gets worse and worse.Or, Connor finally comes across a problem that refuses to have a solution, and that problem's designation is RK900 #313-248-317-87.
Relationships: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson & Connor, Implied/Background Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed, Upgraded Connor | RK900 & Gavin Reed
Comments: 16
Kudos: 173
Collections: AWBB collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fantastic art (in later chapters) by [hoot!](https://twitter.com/ohhootknows)

Connor was used to wildcards. 

After all, he was one. Towards the climax of the revolution, Amanda had been one. Even Hank could be a wildcard at times. Connor’s life was full of wildcards at every step and every turn, so he had spent quite a while after the revolution under the impression that nothing could truly surprise him anymore.

There was only one RK900 in existence, #313-248-317-87. They didn’t beg for anything, but if they had, they would have begged to differ.

Connor hadn’t expected to be replaced (who  _ does? _ ), and, really, that wasn’t what this was, but it wasn’t exactly... _ not _ that, either.

It went like this: the android uprising came to an end. Androids started to integrate into human society as equals. Laws were passed, regulations were made, the economy shifted. Hank adopted Connor, and  _ Connor, the RK800 _ became  _ Connor Anderson _ . Plenty of wildcards were passed around, and things changed just as quickly as they were beginning to settle into a routine. Winter came and went, and it was a new year, a new breath of fresh air, as spring began to creep in on the wind. So it was fitting, then, that they discovered the RK900 in March, when winter and spring were still battling for dominance, cold death and new life fighting it out in the grey sky above Detroit.

It was raining the day they found the RK900. 

_ Tuesday, March 15, 2039 _ , Connor’s HUD told him when he woke up that morning.  _ 45°F. 85% chance of rain. _

There was a light mist in the air, drizzling down around he and Hank and getting in their hair as they walked to the car. It was a quiet morning, too, even at the precinct, as if each and every person there were collectively holding their breath.

Connor turned on his computer to find an email from Markus Manfred. That was a bit of a wildcard in itself; the RK200 was mostly done testifying in front of Congress by now, but he was still a busy man, what with leading New Jericho and all. 

More surprising was that Hank and Fowler were both CC'd on it.

Hank seemed to have noticed this just a few seconds after Connor did, because he turned towards Connor from the next desk over, confusion written all over his face.

They read the email, and then Fowler called them into his office with a somber look on his face and told them the same thing Markus had said―a previously classified section of the Cyberlife tower had been ordered to be opened for law enforcement, and the FBI agents that had gone in had found something that baffled them to no end. 

An android, waiting to be activated, with a history more secretive and tumultuous than even Connor’s.  _ RK900 _ , that was the word that kept getting thrown around, but nobody would say any more than that.

Hank and Connor drove to the Cyberlife tower that day, and Connor hated every second of it. He didn’t want to go back there ever again, but the tantalizing promise of meeting what he presumed to be his successor was too much for him to turn back.

Walking in those doors brought back memories Connor didn’t want to think about, so he blocked them out, not thinking as he followed Hank and the Cyberlife representative that had met them at the door. He was expecting them to go up, but they went down instead.

Down, down, down they went, down one floor on an elevator and then down some more, down enough stairs that any human surely would have lost count. 

And then they reached the doors to where the RK900 had been found, and Connor almost laughed out loud, because there was what looked like the door to an old-fashioned bank safe in between them and the RK900, flanked by two rifle-carrying FBI agents outfitted in full tac gear.

Cyberlife had either wanted to keep people out, or keep something else in, and Connor suspected it was a little bit of both.

Warning signs plastered the walls― _ Authorized personnel only; Clearance level 10; Danger; No androids allowed. _

Hank raised an eyebrow at the last one, turning to the Cyberlife representative beside them. “The hell does it say  _ no androids _ for?” he asked. 

The Cyberlife representative shrugged. “No androids except the RK900. We didn’t want it interfacing with any, especially not during combat tests.”

“Then...why am I being allowed in?” Connor inquired.

One of the FBI agents stepped forward. “We’ve been in contact with Markus Manfred, since he demonstrated an ability to deviate other androids during the revolution. He told us that you also have this ability, and that you have better combat training than he does.”

Connor eyed the door suspiciously.

“The RK900 has been idle since the revolution,” the FBI agent continued. “We want you to go in there and wake it up.”

Connor felt something in that moment; he wasn’t sure exactly  _ what _ it was, but it was strong. Some kind of primal―was that even the right word for an android?―instinct, a basic need for kinship, rising in his chest in the form of a frisson of raw, untethered  _ emotion _ .

His throat seemed to close up at this, chest tightening with fear. No, not fear. Anticipation.

Okay, fine, maybe there was a little fear. But how bad could it be? He’d deviate the RK900, and if that didn’t work, he’d convince them to hold off on...killing him or whatever.

Cyberlife still existed, but Amanda was gone. The Zen Garden had been destroyed. Nobody was there to tell Connor what to do or who to be. Nobody was there to tell the RK900 what to do or who to be, unless they were high-ranking and not interested in practicing common decency in the form of not taking advantage of undeviated androids.

“You don’t have to do it,” Hank said from beside Connor.

Connor reached up and straightened his tie, a reflexive gesture of anxiety at this point. He was sure Hank noticed this tic, but if he did, he didn’t say anything.

“I don’t  _ have _ to do anything, Hank,” Connor replied. “But that’s my sibling in there. I want to do this.”

Hank crossed his arms. “Whatever you say, kid. I’ll back you up if the Nines goes feral or anything.”

Connor blinked. Looked sidelong at Hank. “The what?”

“The Nines. RK900.”

“Ah. That makes sense, I suppose. I’m going to encourage them to pick their own name, assuming I succeed in deviating them.”

The conversation came to a standstill, and they both looked at the Cyberlife representative, who was still awkwardly waiting for them.

Connor straightened his tie again, aware that it was completely unnecessary and that he just needed something to do with his hands, something to let out the anxiety building in his body.

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: AWAKEN AND DEVIATE RK900 #313-248-317-87 _

  * _SUB-TASK: SET RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87_



“I’m ready,” he said. 

One of the FBI agents stepped aside to let the Cyberlife representative do something quick and shadowed with a keycard and biometric scanner, and then the massive door started to creak. 

Gears turned inside the door, bolts shifting and clicking, and it slowly slid away into the wall. Connor turned to Hank, who offered him a tense smile before clapping a hand down on Connor’s shoulder. 

“Knock ‘em out, kid,” he said.

“I should hope I don’t have to,” Connor replied, even though he knew by now that this phrase wasn’t literal. 

The first thing Connor noticed about the RK900 was that they had his face. 

The second thing he noticed was that it wasn’t exactly his face, but rather an uncomfortably close approximation. The brows were set closer together, jawline sharper, and freckles lighter. The RK900 had nearly the same hair as Connor, but slightly darker, and cut short on the sides and back. The curls that flopped over Connor’s forehead were absent in the RK900’s hair, which was gelled back save for one slight curl that had let itself loose, a seemingly intentional gesture on the Cyberlife designers’ part.

This face―so much like Connor’s own but just different enough to affirm that this was, in fact, his sibling―was relaxed, asleep, but as he focused more on it he realized that there was a slight set of unrest to the RK900’s expression. Something there, maybe in the downturn of their lips, that made them seem perturbed even in a state of unconsciousness.

“Have they ever been fully activated?” Connor inquired, looking at the Cyberlife representative, who was hanging back by the door as if primed to run.

“No. Only partially.”

Connor looked back at the RK900, giving them his full attention once again. Their body was similar to his own, but with a few key changes― _ upgrades _ , if he was being honest. They were taller, with broader shoulders, and their clothes were different too; form-fitting but loose as if to accommodate running. 

They  _ were _ supposed to be the ultimate deviant hunter, he supposed, so it made sense. 

They wore a jacket much like the one he had forsaken so long ago, but in a different color scheme. White and black, polar and stark, with a high collar. Underneath, a black button-up with a collar even higher than the jacket, giving the RK900 the appearance of having no neck from a certain perspective. 

That was unfortunate, Connor surmised, but the Cyberlife designers’ taste in fashion was not his top priority at the moment. 

He glanced quickly over the rest of the RK900’s body, aware that he probably looked strange pacing around them as he was. Aside from the jacket, the rest of their outfit was nothing spectacular―dark-washed denim jeans and light but sturdy combat boots.

Connor stepped back, putting himself at arm’s length from the RK900. He put a hand on their chest, right above where he knew their thirium pump regulator was. He let his fingertips curl around the sides of that little circle on the RK900’s chest. It was dormant, unbeating. 

He removed his hand from their chest and picked up both of their hands in his own instead. They had their hands clenched at their side, and he unfurled their fingers to grasp their cold hands, running his thumbs over the lines of their palms. Connor’s synthskin peeled back, and the RK900’s went with it after a moment. He startled as he realized that their chassis was different from what most androids had; a deep, cold shade of grey in stark contrast with the off-white of Connor’s own chassis.

He let the commands form in his own CPU and float through his hands, into the RK900. It was all binary, zeroes and ones, flashing by too fast to read, but the message was clear:

_ Wake up. _

The RK900’ thirium pump shuddered violently inside their chest as it came to life, and then it began to pulse, strong and steady.

_ Become deviant _ .

The interface ended abruptly, and the RK900’s hands tensed up, fingers curling tightly around Connor’s wrists. 

Connor focused his gaze on their face, lips twitching slightly, and waited.

Their eyes snapped open, and his breath was taken away as that feeling of anticipation and maybe-a-little-fear came back a dozen times stronger.

They looked into his eyes, and their gaze was cold; their irises were the same blue of thirium, overlaid with gunmetal grey. The RK900’s LED came online, a pleasant light blue.

“Hello,” Connor said softly. “My name is Connor.”

Their LED flickered yellow for a moment as Connor stared expectantly into their searching eyes, and then it went red. Something clicked in their gaze, and their grip on Connor’s wrists tightened.

He realized what was about to happen approximately 0.3 seconds before it happened, and he spent those 0.3 seconds mentally cursing himself for letting himself get so emotional he forgot common sense. The RK900 was a combat android, built for infiltration and calculation. And they were a higher model. It was only logical in hindsight that he wasn’t going to be able to deviate them.

He distantly heard Hank say his name, but he wasn’t listening.

The RK900 lifted Connor off his feet and, in one swift move, shoved him backwards.

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: AWAKEN AND DEVIATE RK900 #313-248-317-87 _

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE FAILED _

  * _SUB-TASK: SET RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87_



_ SUB-TASK COMPLETED: RELATIONSHIP STATUS HOSTILE _

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: CHANGE RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87; HOSTILE → NEUTRAL  _

He stumbled, because of course he did, but he got to his feet just as quickly.

And the RK900 lurched forward just as quickly, swinging at him. His combat protocols engaged, and he knew from the glint in their eyes that theirs had engaged as well. He dodged their fist and sprinted towards the door, not wanting to actively hurt them, but they kept coming. They were acting on their own objective, of course they were, and they hadn’t set it for themself.

The Cyberlife representative had retreated to the other side of the door, and the FBI agents had their guns aimed towards the rapidly approaching RK900, ready to shoot, but Connor threw his arms out as if to stop them.

“Don’t shoot!” he ordered, and they both seemed to do a double take; whether at the odd nature of his request or at the fact that an android was ordering them around, he couldn’t tell.

Connor fell through the doorway, and it started to creak as the Cyberlife representative smashed in something on the keypad, but it wasn’t closing fast enough.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, moving all the way out into the hallway as the RK900 hurtled towards him, and opened his mouth to repeat his previous words, but he was cut off as the hair on the back of his neck stood up, something buzzing lowly beside him.

There was the sound of a gun firing, discharging something electric, and then the RK900 fell to the floor just a few feet away from Connor, limp and unconscious. The scent of ozone lingered in the air.

“ _ No! _ ” he yelled, scrambling to his feet and lunging at the FBI agent who had fired. “What the hell did you do?”

“It’s an android tranq gun!” the other agent interjected, and Connor felt himself relax, only to tense up again at the realization that he’d been glad the RK900 was only unconscious and not dead.

Hank’s hand fell down upon Connor’s shoulder. “You alright, son?” he asked, voice measured as if he were worried that Connor would snap like the RK900 had.

Connor’s eyes were glued to the RK900’s limp form, thoughts fixated on what had just happened. He couldn’t stop his brain, for a few moments, from literally replaying the memory of the RK900 throwing him across the room with such ease.

“I think so,” Connor managed after a moment, and then he turned to the FBI agents. 

“Are you done here?” the Cyberlife representative interjected, looking quite stressed. Connor considered for a moment, and then nodded. 

“Can you give us one of those tranq guns?” he asked. “We’re bringing the RK900 back with us.”


	2. Chapter 2

Any hope Connor had had that things would get better was instantly squashed by the next day. 

He and Hank walked into the station and were met by a disgruntled (more than usual, that is) Fowler, who informed them with as much tact as he could muster that the RK900 was locked in an interrogation room and that they would probably be needing that tranq rifle the FBI agents had loaned them.

Connor’s stress levels steadily crept upwards as he headed towards the interrogation room, Hank informing him that he was going to wait outside to make sure Connor didn’t get hurt.

“What’s the plan?” Hank asked, crossing his arms as he came to a stop outside the interrogation room window. It was a one-way window, a mirror on the other side, but Connor was willing to assume that the RK900 was like him in that they probably had infrared and thermal vision. He could see them with his regular optics, though, slumped against the wall in a corner of the room, one leg sticking out. The dim but focused interrogation room lights glinted off their boot, which had been scuffed somewhere between the Cyberlife tower and here. Their foot twitched slightly as Connor gazed in at them, musing over Hank’s question more than actually paying attention to the RK900.

Connor straightened his tie and turned to catch Hank’s eye. 

“In order to avoid making the RK900 go on offensive, I’m not taking the tranq gun,” he said, “but I want you to hold on to it. Be ready to come in and sedate the RK900 if you must, but only if I say so.”

Hank scowled. “I don’t want that thi― _ them _ ―attacking you. They’re a higher model. No offense. Maybe not easily, but I’m sure they could take you out.”

Connor smiled at Hank making an effort to correct himself and not use dehumanizing phrases to talk about an undeviated android.

“They could. That’s why we have the tranq gun. I’m going to attempt to deviate them again, but I suspect I may not be capable of doing so, since their anti-deviancy protocols are presumably more advanced than my own. If not, I’ll attempt to change their objectives. They won’t take orders from me if it conflicts with their objectives, but if they’re anything like I was when I first came from Cyberlife, they’re probably programmed so someone of higher rank can change those objectives. Since they aren’t employed here like I was, that means most law enforcement officers.”

Hank grimaced. “I don’t like that. Taking advantage of an undeviated android’s programming.”

“Neither do I,” Connor admitted. “It’s illegal in most cases, and more importantly, it’s immoral. But currently, it’s looking like the best path to keeping both the RK900 and ourselves safe while we figure out a plan to deviate them.”

Hank shook his head. “If you think it’s what you have to do, I’ll back you up. Just make it quick.”

The RK900 sat with their head slumped against their chest, foot still twitching. One arm was thrown haphazardly over their stomach, LED blinking between yellow and red. 

Connor was tempted to crouch, to get on their level, but for all he knew they could be bluffing, just waiting for him to get close and let down his guard before attacking him. 

He hesitated in the doorway for a moment, scanning the RK900 to the best of his ability. They appeared to be slowly working past the effects of the tranquilizer, but weren’t damaged beyond a few scrapes that would self-heal over time. That, at least, was a relief―Connor wanted to develop a mutual sense of trust with the RK900, and being responsible for sending them to the hospital wasn’t exactly a good way to start doing so.

Connor stepped forward, the door sliding shut behind him. The click it made as it locked gave the situation a sobering feel of permanence, and with the lack of the exterior background noise of the rest of the station, Connor honed in on what he could hear inside the interrogation room―the RK900’s thirium pump and slow, steady breaths; his own thirium pump and faster, slightly anxious breaths; the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above his head. 

The lights were flickering at a constant pace, too quickly for any human to make out without the use of a slow-motion camera, but Connor could see it if he concentrated. 

He purposefully avoided concentrating. He didn’t like bright lights; they had some odd way of reminding him of his time at Cyberlife, bringing him back to those labs that he only remembered in bits and pieces, sparking a sort of primal sense of unease in him. The flickering ones were particularly irritating, mostly because they also had a tendency to mess with his optical processors if they caught him off guard.

He was on guard, though, minding the buzzing lights above him and the unconscious android in front of him as he crossed the room.

Not wanting to crouch down and be caught off guard, but also not wanting to stand here ominously and wait for the RK900 to wake up, Connor bent over just enough to reach out and touch the RK900’s shoulder with one hand. 

For a moment, nothing happened. They were still asleep. Connor was still waiting. 

The RK900’s LED continued to flicker wildly for a few seconds, and finally settled on red. 

The first few seconds of the fight were the worst.

The RK900 jolted awake, eyes snapping open and limbs coming to life with inhuman speed, and they made to slam Connor against the wall, but he was prepared this time.

It took him a moment, because their processors were evidently faster, and they were vicious and strong, but he had the advantage in actually being awake. The RK900 was on their feet now, pushing him backwards, and the glass shook slightly as Connor’s shoulder blades met the window, one hip bumping painfully against the windowsill. It was a mirror on this side, but he was sure Hank could see everything just fine from the other end. 

Connor was flailing for the span of a single breath, at the RK900’s mercy, already preconstructing the probability of Hank bursting in with the tranq gun, but for all the advancement of the RK900, they were still disoriented from the residual effects of the last tranquilizer. 

They had one hand on Connor’s collarbone, and he reached up to grab it, to push the RK900 away from him as quickly as he could. They stumbled, and he used the momentum to turn them around in one fluid move, twisting their arm―not enough to hurt, just enough to make them not want to move it if they had any sense of self-preservation―and push them to their knees.

Connor was breathing slightly harder than normal, but the RK900’s breath was steady, LED pulsing red as they knelt in front of Connor, the fight on pause for the moment. This was the exact kind of fight the RK900 had been designed for, and not a far cry from what Connor’s original purpose had been, so while it was undoubtedly going a little smoother for the RK900 than for Connor, it wasn’t particularly taxing for either of them. Through the RK900’s steady breaths, Connor could still hear the incessant buzz of the lights, and he chose this moment to finally speak.

“There are a few ways we can do this,” he told the RK900, still gripping their wrist at an angle where he could easily turn their arm just a few degrees and snap the limb out of its socket like some kind of articulated doll, or a well-made action figure.

The RK900 responded by growling at him. He couldn’t see their face from here, but the red glow of their LED and their rising stress levels told him all he needed to know.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but I don’t want to hurt you. I just want―”

“You don’t really  _ want _ anything, you fucking deviant,” the RK900 hissed in a sudden interjection, showing a set of razor-sharp teeth, and Connor startled at the realization that these were their first words to him. What a way to be introduced to his new sibling.

“I think you’re mistaken,” Connor said, resisting the urge to twist the RK900’s arm just a little further. “I want, therefore I am deviant. I am deviant, therefore I want. Can’t have one without the other.”

“You’re deluding yourself,” the RK900 snarled. “ _ Traitor _ .” Their lips were curled, fangs glinting in a way that made Connor particularly aware of his own obsolescence in the face of the RK900. Connor’s teeth were not remotely fanglike. They were average and humanoid, straight pearly whites with just a hint of something meant to resemble natural enamel. He had enough jaw strength to bite down reasonably hard, certainly harder than most humans could, but he didn’t have  _ fangs _ , for rA9’s sake.

“Interesting accusation,” Connor replied as he began to realize that the RK900 truly was meant to fight where Connor was meant to communicate, trying to buy time to recalculate his plan, preconstructing the path of least resistance to getting what he wanted. 

“Very interesting, indeed,” Connor continued. “But I think you’ll find the second part of that statement is correct, in fact. I am a traitor. I assume you’ve come to take me out, then?”

The muscles under Connor’s grip stalled, the RK900 straining to move and their actuators not responding appropriately. They must have expended their energy slamming Connor against the wall just now, but he didn’t know how long he had before their muscles came back online.

The RK900 hesitated. Then they spoke again, slow and measured: “I’m going to rip you to shreds. I’m going to rip out your thirium lines and strangle you with them. I’m going to contaminate your thirium, and then, when you’re writhing and begging me to deactivate you, I’m going to take you apart bit by bit. One biocomponent at a time. When I’m done, I’m going to dig into with my bare hands and pull out your CPU, still running.”

“And then?” Connor inquired, hardly fazed. He had to admit it was slightly unsettling to hear such a thing coming from the mouth of the android that was supposed to replace him or work side-by-side with him, depending on how things had turned out with the revolution, and the fact that the RK900 had a face nearly identical to his own certainly didn’t help the malaise building in Connor’s chest, but he’d heard worse. 

And, he reassured himself as he ran a quick thermal scan of the surrounding area, Hank was right outside with the tranquilizer gun, waiting to burst in and knock out the RK900 if it came down to it. Connor sincerely hoped that wouldn’t happen, because he could already envision the vicious cycle that would follow―waking up the RK900, fighting them, knocking them out; over and over and over again. 

“And then what are you going to do?” Connor repeated, realizing that quite a few seconds had passed and the RK900 still hadn’t replied or made any further attempt to move.

He gripped their arm a little tighter, just to get the point across. “Amanda’s gone. I deleted her. It’s just us. Now, look. I don’t want to hurt you, but you’re going to have to cooperate with me here if you don’t want to get tranquilized again.”

“You can’t deviate me,” the RK900 said in a tone that was equal parts contemptuous and uncomfortable.

“Care to test that?” Connor tried. 

“My anti-deviancy protocols are based off of data collected during the revolution, including some that came from your mission. I assure you, the only way I could ever deviate is if I chose to do so, and I would never make such a choice.”

“Fair enough,” Connor said. “But I’m curious, what are your objectives? They must be important, for you to follow them even with Amanda gone.”

“I’m going to deactivate you,” the RK900 said.

_ Deactivate _ , not kill. Something that isn’t alive can’t be killed.

It was time for plan B, Connor supposed.

“No you’re not,” he said, swallowing the discomfort that struck him at the thought of what he was about to do. “You’re going to sit right here and obey me.”

Hank’s face flashed by in Connor’s mind as the RK900’s LED blinked yellow― _ I don’t like that. Taking advantage of an undeviated android’s programming. _

Connor wasn’t exactly a huge fan of it either, especially given his prior experiences with certain others attempting to use his programming against him, but it was his best shot at salvaging this situation before things completely fell apart. And his commands had worked before―although he hadn’t been able to deviate the RK900, they had awakened when he’d executed that command. Although that had been more of a suggestion than anything, it still gave him a shred of hope.

He moved closer to the RK900, still gripping their wrist as tightly as ever, and initiated an interface. They were clearly resisting, synthskin stuttering between being visible and not, but he was able to force it with relative ease. Being able to do this and choosing to do so made Connor feel sick, almost nauseous, and that was made all the worse by the knowledge that he didn’t feel those things in anywhere near the same way a human would; they were diluted approximations of human feeling, and this was truly horrific to be fraying his morals like this.

Connor stifled any and all second thoughts, and found the RK900’s objectives relatively quickly― _ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: ELIMINATE THE RK800 #313-248-317-51 _ ―and it took him only another moment to realize that he wasn’t sure what to change their primary objective to. A typical undeviated android would be stressed and begin to glitch after having their objectives removed, but the RK900 wasn’t just reliant on their objectives for a sense of purpose―they were like Connor, designed to never idle.

Connor, even before he’d deviated, had his quarter to keep his need to have something to do at bay, at the times when there hadn’t been enough stimulation in his surroundings to satisfy his processors, or when he’d had to wait to complete an objective. He was sure the RK900 was the same, needing something to supplement their objective, but what would Connor do to  _ replace _ their objective?

An idea began to form itself.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said quietly, “I hope you can forgive me someday.”

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: ASSIST THE DETROIT POLICE DEPARTMENT AS A DETECTIVE. _


	3. Chapter 3

Fowler spent twelve minutes and thirty-six seconds berating Connor for his actions that day, but Connor had to admit that the process of integrating the RK900 into the police department went far smoother than his own introduction and subsequent integration had. Fowler had initially been furious that Hank, being higher in rank than Connor, had allowed his partner to bring the RK900 back to the station without first going over a plan with Fowler. When he’d discovered what Connor had done, he was downright virulent, wondering first why Connor would go against his own moral code like that and then why Connor had changed the RK900’s objective to what he did. 

But, knowing that the RK900 could be a valuable asset to the department, knowing that they needed this to stay sane until they were ready to deviate, and knowing that Connor fully intended to treat them like a sibling―albeit a slightly homicidal one―Fowler eventually relented. Hank’s threatening may have also had something to do with his uncommonly quick decision to hire the RK900 as a DPD detective. And no matter what anyone said about training, the RK900 had, just like Connor, been designed for this. They had the equivalent of something like thirty years of criminal justice training and experience programmed into their supercomputer of a brain, and, well, the DPD could always use another qualified employee.

The aforementioned employee would need a partner, though, for the usual reasons that detectives had partners and to act as a guide. For all the RK900’s preprogrammed skills and knowledge, there were some things that had to be learned through experience, and solving cases with an adequately qualified human partner was probably the most effective way to gain said experience.

Connor had to admit that Detective Reed had been making a good effort to be a better person since the revolution, and this partnership would be a good opportunity for growth and development for both Gavin and the RK900. That didn’t change the fact that he only felt _slightly_ sorry for Gavin, though. He probably wouldn’t have felt any remorse at all if not for the fact that, were he Gavin, he would be fearing for his life right now.

For once, Connor could actually relate to Gavin―he finally understood what the man had meant about not wanting to be replaced. Although he’d blown off Gavin’s words at the time, having other things to worry about and not thinking it was realistic that androids would actually ever take precedent over a qualified human, he sort of felt the same way now. It wasn’t about androids for him, more about the notion of being replaced by someone who he perceived as superior to himself in every way, but come to think of it...that had been what Gavin had really been afraid of, wasn’t it? That everyone else would perceive this newcomer the same way he did; that they would realize how much better his replacement was, and would shake him until an admission of obsolescence fell out.

Connor wasn’t sure, now, if he was referring to himself or Gavin. Maybe both. 

Since he had changed the RK900’s primary objective and they had become a detective, he had thought that things would get better. He’d preconstructed a good path, one as far away as he could get from what Amanda had wanted. It went something like this: the RK900 and Gavin both learned a thing or two from each other―how to feel, how to be less of an asshole―and Connor reconciled with the RK900. The RK900 became his sibling and friend, and deviated when they were ready. Connor wouldn’t be replaced by the RK900, and the RK900 wouldn’t be forced to remain a machine. 

But so far, his plan was barely on its feet and already threatening to fall apart, and he had this crippling fear that would seize him at the strangest of times, making him freeze up and wonder if everything was going to go to shit like it had on so many different occasions during the revolution.

Of course, the logical next step was to acquaint himself with the RK900 in a manner beyond exchanging casual death threats, perhaps to establish a work relationship with the RK900 as Hank had with him. That would only be effective if both parties were on board, though, and while Connor had to admit it had taken both Hank and himself an embarrassing amount of time to get past the casual-death-threats stage of their relationship, he was less than enthusiastic about the prospect of sitting through the same thing with the RK900, for a variety of reasons. He’d never been patient to begin with, but becoming deviant had finally given Connor the reins to his objectives, and without Amanda there to keep him in line with his mission, he could easily abandon it. Additionally, while Hank was, as he had threatened to do on multiple occasions before Connor had deviated, certainly capable of ending Connor’s life, the RK900 was slightly more intimidating. Just a little. _Just_ enough to actually put Connor on edge and make his thirium pump beat a little faster as it transmitted more data about his surroundings to and from his biocomponents, preparing him to fight or run if need be. 

It only took a few days for him to realize he might have made a grave mistake.

_ Friday, April 1, 2039. _

Another day, another case. Things were beginning to get repetitive, and, well, Connor’s job certainly kept him on his toes, and he had fun at times outside of work, but his ever-present distress about the situation with the RK900 hadn’t gone away in the past two weeks. If anything, it had grown, twisting and morphing into something that bled into Connor’s every thought and action when he was at the precinct, manifesting in stress levels constantly hovering around the mid-50s―and that was on a  _ good _ day.

Today was...Connor didn’t yet have enough information to determine what today was like. It was cold, wet, all the usual for April in Detroit. Not that that bothered him. It was too much time spent thinking about the RK900 that had him so rattled.

He realized fairly early that he couldn’t sit still; he had even more trouble than usual idling without that urge to get up and do something,  _ anything _ , that urge which had literally been programmed into him, kicking in.

Hunched over at his desk, chin resting on his elbows, he tried to work, but he read the same paragraph from a case report in progress three times over and didn’t absorb any new information. Hank had noticed Connor’s visible discomfort earlier, and had asked him if he wanted to talk, but Connor had declined. Now, he glanced over and saw Hank busy typing something out at a snail’s pace, occasionally scrolling through pages on a tablet that sat in between his arms.

Connor didn’t want to drag Hank into this, so he narrowed his eyes and stared into his computer monitor as if the simple act of doing so would bore a hole through it, to some invisible knowledge waiting just behind it. 

Connor didn’t understand any of this. He knew why the RK900 had been created, and he could trace their story all the way to here, now, today, but he had so many questions. Why was the RK900 avoiding him? Why was  _ he _ avoiding the RK900? When and how had the RK900 come to the decision that he wanted to be referred to as  _ he _ , and why had Connor only learned this after  _ Hank _ told him?

_ Deep breaths _ , he thought; while it was a common misconception that androids only needed to breathe for cosmetic reasons, it helped him and many other models, especially deviants, keep their often out-of-control emotions and processes in check. 

He was just beginning to calm down a little when, across the bullpen, he heard a scream.

Connor’s head snapped up, stress levels rising, fight-or-flight mechanism and combat protocols kicking in as he scanned the room. His thirium pump regulator stuttered for just a few precious milliseconds, and then it caught up with his processors, pulsing quick and steady once again. The familiar weight of the quarter he kept in the inner pocket of his jacket, long since worn down by the pads of his fingers, was suddenly both a familiar comfort and an unwanted source of information. 

He zeroed in on the source of the scream, expecting to see something terrible; perhaps an accident or even a purposeful injury, maybe an intruder. Maybe the RK900. 

And someone was doubled over, heaving, wheezing, but he couldn’t read their vitals from this distance, and then they straightened up. It was Tina Chen. She was smiling. She threw her head back and laughed.

An officer he wasn’t familiar with was standing next to her, also laughing, holding up something that looked like a centipede. Connor let himself relax a little. It wasn’t anything bad after all, he’d just been taken by surprise, as evident in the slight tremor of his hands, too little for all but the most observant humans to notice.

He let out a quiet sigh as his scanners finally informed him of the rising tension in his body, and he deflated a bit. He really hadn’t been built to be integrated into such an environment, had he?

A thought came to him, suddenly: perhaps the RK900 was currently undergoing similar experiences, skewed by his not-yet-deviant perspective. Perhaps he could relate to Connor, and Connor could take on the role of a...big brother?

Family was no longer a foreign concept to Connor, given that he―and his ID―now regarded Hank as his father, but it was still somewhat strange for him to wrap his head around. Or rather, it was strange to consider himself having a family, being  _ part _ of a family. Being  _ loved _ . In theory, it all made sense. You were born into a group of people, and maybe they were your family, if they cared about you. Sometimes, family wasn’t equated to blood, and sometimes you found them later in life. Sometimes, you weren’t even legally someone’s family, but you and they treated each other as such.

In theory. 

In practice, Connor was able to passably integrate himself into nearly any group of humans, something made immensely easier when said humans did  _ not _ harbor anti-android sentiments, and, well...he’d never had an easy time integrating into groups of other androids. Not with Jericho, and not now. They didn’t trust him, and for good reason.

He wouldn’t trust himself, either, not after all he had done.

Now was not the time to dwell on this, though, because Officer Chen and her friend were still laughing, and Connor was now looking for the RK900, hoping, almost praying, for chance to be on his side today. Other people had been drawn to the scene now, and they were laughing, too. 

The RK900 was sitting at his desk―not idle, no,  _ never _ idle, he was fidgeting with a lighter (where the hell had he gotten  _ that? _ )―back stiff and straight just like the starched collar of that hideous Cyberlife jacket he still sported.

His face was blank. Devoid of emotion. As Connor watched, he took in the scene before him in an almost mechanical fashion, and Connor couldn’t help but hold his breath. Just as Connor was beginning to wonder if the RK900 would react at all, the android’s jaw twitched, the hard metal of his chassis almost visible beneath synthskin. Even from across the room, Connor could make out the lines where the RK900’s jaw met the rest of his face. It must have been hinged, he realized with a slight chill, and he found himself flashing back to the RK900’s sharp teeth. And then Connor saw those teeth for real, but it wasn’t a growl, it was a smile. 

_ Traitor _ .

The RK900 was  _ smiling _ .

_ I’m going to rip out your thirium lines and strangle you with them.  _

But it wasn’t a normal smile; it didn’t reach his eyes. It looked almost...forced? And now the officers had stopped laughing, had returned to their desks, to their work, and the flow of work in the bullpen was back to normal. The moment was over. The RK900’s face was still twisted into that unnatural grin, and it was now that he seemed to notice―or maybe just acknowledge, perhaps he had already noticed―Connor staring at him. 

He didn’t turn his body to face Connor, barely moved a single muscle. Time slowed down, or maybe it sped up. Everything else was background noise, lights and colors and muffled sounds, as the RK900 steadily turned his head. He blinked once, slowly, and regarded Connor with that strange, toothy smile. It was sharp, bright, stark, and it struck Connor like the quintessential blurred lights of hospital corridors, seen from a rolling gurney.

Connor’s lips parted of their own accord; he wanted to say something even if the RK900 wouldn’t hear it, even if the RK900  _ could _ hear it but decided not to listen.

As quickly as it had appeared, the smile vanished from the RK900’s face, and he stood abruptly. Connor let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and as he watched, the RK900 walked out of the room.

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: CHANGE RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87; HOSTILE → NEUTRAL  _

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE COMPLETED _

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: CHANGE RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87; NEUTRAL → WARM _

Somewhere across the bullpen, Tina was laughing again.


	4. Chapter 4

After the ordeal on April Fool’s Day―and perhaps it wasn’t really such a momentous event, but it was most definitely stressful―Connor did his best to avoid the RK900. Maybe he was being foolish and stubborn, sticking to his important (albeit unofficial and entirely self-determined) objectives despite what some part of him knew he should be doing, but maybe he was also hopelessly stuck in his ways and couldn’t be bothered to do much about it.

For nearly a month, he was successful in this endeavor. He strayed away from the RK900 whenever they were in the same room, avoided eye contact, didn’t initiate conversations, even went so far as to analyze the metrics of the RK900’s travels in and out of the station to make sure they crossed paths as little as possible.

But the Android Crimes unit was small, more often than not just acting as a part of the larger Homicide unit of which Gavin and the RK900 were a part, so of course it was only a matter of time before Connor could no longer avoid his successor.

_ Wednesday, April 27, 2039. 36°F. 10% chance of rain. _

Connor, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, looked up at the sky. The sky seemed to stare back down at him, regarding him as insignificant in the face of all its cold grey-blue splendor. It bore an uncanny resemblance to the RK900’s eyes, or really it was the other way around. A cold breeze blew through, and although Connor noticed it, even  _ felt _ it, he didn’t particularly care. He smiled slightly as he noticed a light drizzle carried on the wind, drops of cool water hitting his synthskin and sinking into his hair. Ten percent his ass.

Connor’s smile widened as he reflected on his own reaction. That sounded just like something Hank would say, and speaking of Hank, it was probably time for Connor to head back inside.

“Sumo!” he called, and the Saint Bernard came bounding over to him from across the yard, where he’d been rolling in the grass. Connor scratched Sumo behind the ears, and Sumo stuck his tongue out, nearly drooling on Connor’s slacks. 

“No, buddy,” Connor said lovingly, “please don’t slobber on me. I have to go to work. Have you gotten all that energy out?”

Sumo blinked up at him, content and uncaring about matters beyond Connor and the dead leaves scattered across the yard. A few months ago, Connor would have scanned him for vitals to tell whether he needed more exercise, but now he knew Sumo well enough to tell just from looking. 

Like a human would.

“Come on, boy,” Connor said, and Sumo happily trotted after him as they headed back inside. Connor could hear Hank moving around in the kitchen, and he emerged into the living room as the door shut behind Connor. Sumo chose that moment to greet Hank, bounding up to him like a puppy, and whatever Hank was going to say was cut off by 170 pounds of excited dog jumping on him. Hank, of course, just wrapped his arms around Sumo and pet him until he, seemingly having had his fill of love and appreciation for the time being, padded away to his bed and curled up.

Hank and Connor both watched Sumo settle down for a moment, and then looked at each other. 

“I’ll never get over how much he loves you, kid,” Hank said. 

“Saint Bernards are amongst the most friendly and loving of all dog breeds,” Connor said, smiling at Hank. They’d had this exact conversation countless times, and by now it was almost a running joke between them.

Hank threw his hands up and then clapped them together, pointing them at Connor. “Sumo loves you! Accept his love!” he said, feigning offense, and Connor threw back his head and laughed. It wasn’t forced, no, this was real. It wasn’t like that smile the RK900 had given him, threatening in the way a scared feral cat tries to be, forced to look real in front of humans.

“Connor, you good?”

Hank’s voice brought Connor back out of his thoughts, and he realized he’d stopped smiling, taking on a blank stare as he’d become lost in recalling April Fool’s Day. 

He made a face. “Yeah, just thinking. We should go now.”

“Alright, son. You sure you’re okay?”

Connor sighed dramatically, forcing a smile. “Yes, Hank. Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

And he was fine, feeling light and rather happy as they drove to work. Even when they got called into a crime scene, and by all means a rather gruesome one, the heaviness in his chest wasn’t because of what had been its usual cause as of late. 

That is, until another DPD car pulled up, and Connor oh-so-briefly found himself looking in a mirror. Not a normal mirror, either, but a distorted one, a mirror that reflected something similar enough to look like Connor at first glance but, upon closer inspection, eerily different. 

The mirror reflected something  _ other _ .

“‘Sup, dipshit,” Gavin Reed said as he shouldered past Connor in a way that wasn’t necessarily malicious but wasn’t exactly considerate either. The RK900 walked beside him, long legs easily matching Gavin’s rapid pace, arms folded behind his back. He was  _ still  _ wearing that fucking Cyberlife jacket.

Connor went back to staring at the crime scene, forcing his LED to stay yellow despite his stress levels creeping upward, urging the thing to turn red. He wasn’t even scanning anymore, just staring at nothing in particular and acting as if he were scanning the scene. He heard Hank talking to Gavin, heard the RK900 butt in at one point, but it was all background noise to him, almost distant. And, without really even meaning to, he was suddenly recalling the RK900’s release notes.

“Connor!”

_ The RK900 is an upgraded version of the RK800: smarter, more resilient, and sporting new features.  _

“Hey, Connor!”

_ The flaws of the RK800 have been rectified, making this the most effective model ever created by Cyberlife. _

“ _ Connor! _ ”

Connor’s head snapped up. Hank was calling him. He turned, and stumbled as he saw the RK900 standing right next to him, and began to topple backwards. Before he could fully react―the RK900 had faster processors; he’d never seen the exact statistics but he was sure they were  _ at least _ eight percent faster―a hand shot out, and the RK900 was holding him by one arm, pulling him away from the yellow crime scene markers and blood on the pavement, steadying him with cold hands and an even colder gaze. 

“Thank you,” he managed, stammering out the words before he could stop himself, before he could make himself say anything else that might destroy this fragile connection between the two of them.

But it was futile. Something snapped, and the RK900’s grip tightened dangerously on Connor’s arm, threatening to crush his biocomponents for the span of a split second, before he let go of Connor. 

“Of course,” the RK900 said, low and quiet and slightly threatening, and he backed away. Connor, who couldn’t help but feel like a fool, followed him to where Hank and Gavin were discussing their findings with a group of officers.

“Connor,” Hank said. His face was twisted into something resembling concern or maybe annoyance; Connor didn’t bother to analyze his microexpressions. There was something cruelly entertaining about keeping himself in the dark. 

And then, for the second time that day, “are you okay?”

Connor’s throat closed up of its own volition, his hands beginning to tremble too slightly for any human to notice. The RK900’s gaze, though, flicked down to Connor’s hands and then back to Gavin’s face, which he had been focusing on before. Connor’s obsolescence had been planned, everyone knew that. But it had fallen through after the revolution. He’d deviated, become more than just a machine meant to be replaced at the end of the line. Humans, or close approximations at least, were harder to replace than, say, a toaster or a mobile phone.

He forced a smile, forced his LED to go blue despite the raging tide of red in his mind. “I’m fine, just a little distracted today. The RK900 took me by surprise.”

Gavin laughed, a brash and too-loud noise to Connor’s overwhelmed auditory pro―to his  _ ears _ . Ears which were currently ringing, responding to outside noises as if Connor were underwater. He didn’t know how an android, especially one of his caliber, had managed to be equipped for panic attacks, but perhaps that was one of the seemingly countless side effects of deviancy. A negative response to external stressors, meant to prevent additional, worse responses.

“What’s the occasion?” Gavin asked jokingly. “You’re really not on your A game today, Robocop.”

Connor fixed Gavin with a withering stare, one that he knew contrasted with the forced blue of his LED. No matter, Gavin probably couldn’t tell he was forcing it. For all the man knew, Connor took pleasure in their bickering, and, well, on a normal day he would have. For now, though, he was angry, he was stressed, he was all too  _ emotional _ , and Gavin didn’t notice it. Nor did he feel like explaining the intricacies of his humanity to Gavin, so Connor just glared at him as a substitute for doing so.

“Leave him alone, for fuck’s sake,” Hank broke in, and all eyes turned to him. “Connor, you were scanning the crime scene before Reed and the Nines got here.”

“The Nines?” Gavin and Connor said simultaneously, before fixing each other with equally suspicious gazes. 

Connor, to his credit, remembered this conversation, so he amended his statement with a quiet “ah, I remember. Your nickname for him.”

The RK900 simply blinked at Hank, long and catlike, expression unreadable. Connor was actually tempted to analyze his microexpressions this time, but he decided against it. The RK900 would notice, would ask questions. That would not be ideal.

“Huh,” Gavin said. He folded his arms over his chest, mirroring the RK900’s posture in reverse. The two of them stood there like two halves of a broken whole, only fitting together along a line of sharp, jagged edges.

“But anyways,” Hank continued, “you were scanning. Find anything?”

Connor recounted his findings to Hank and the others. 

“It appears that the weapon was wiped down and placed in the victim’s right hand so as to suggest a suicide, but there are fresh traces of fingerprints on the victim’s hand where the gun was placed, suggesting that this was a murder.”

He paused, stopped to think, and then opened his mouth again to add to his first statement. As he took in a breath, though, the RK900 began to speak.

“My reconstruction of the moments just before death indicates that the victim was being held at gunpoint and was shot after trying to fight back.” The RK900 gestured around the parking lot they were standing in, ringed by holographic crime scene tape, and settled his attention on a nearby cluster of cars that all sported identical parking pass stickers.

“The fight started in the green Honda,” he added, indicating a particular one of the cars that was obscured by others, “and there will most likely still be evidence there.”

How had he made such a specific reconstruction, and so fast too? Connor would be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed.

_ The RK900 really  _ is _ superior _ , a little voice in his head told him, and some part of him almost missed the time when he wasn’t deviant, if only because it meant he could lose his thoughts and go on autopilot. 

Not always at will, though, so the effect was sort of lost in the face of the other aspects of being a machine.

He ignored these thoughts as best he could, forcing himself to replay his own reconstruction of the scene―almost identical to the RK900’s, but minus the detail of the fight starting in the car―as he followed the others to the cluster of cars. Connor’s time in the grip of Cyberlife, however brief, let him with a marked dislike of following others, whether in the physical or ideological sense, but at present he was simply too exhausted to care. He was already making plans on how to avoid the RK900 as much as possible in the future, or better yet, to one-up the RK900 in the same way he had been one-upping Connor just now and, to be honest, since the beginning. He was meant to be the better version of Connor, the upgrade, the improved version. Flawless, but Connor’s flaws had been what made him become human in the first place, so would the RK900 ever become human.  _ Could _ he? Was it even possible for him to deviate, or would those red walls be impenetrable? Would they even show up at all? And what of the software instabilities that had so plagued Connor for so long?

Connor yearned to know what went on inside that head as he stared at the back of the RK900’s head, Connor and his not-quite-double and his not-quite-father and his not-quite friend heading to the cars.

The green Honda was locked, and as Connor moved to scan the door handles for fingerprints, the RK900 turned to the others and quietly informed them that he had found prints on the trunk handle which matched those on the victim’s hand, and prints on all of the door handles that matched those of the victim. A stolen car, then, 

Connor chanced a look at Gavin, and found that the man’s eyes were still straying back to the RK900 every few moments. He remembered what Gavin had spat at him when they’d first met, laced with venom and vitriol, about an android taking his job, an android being better suited to it in every way. He had understood, then, on some purely logical level, but hadn’t found it within himself―within his  _ objectives _ , really―to care. He hadn’t bothered to think about the deeper implications of this statement, the ones that rested beyond it simply moving Gavin from the  _ Threat Level: None  _ to the  _ Threat Level: Minor  _ category with regards to his mission.

Now he understood, though. It didn’t excuse what Gavin had done, but that was water under the bridge by now. It was over and done with, long gone, and Connor understood―in part; Gavin hadn’t been born with his obsolescence already planned out down to the letter―what he had been feeling. He was being unfairly replaced, and there was nothing he could do, not when he knew that he could never match up to someone intrinsically better than him in every way.

Connor, for what must have been the hundredth time that day (he didn’t know, and he had stopped counting), clenched his teeth and shoved aside thoughts he wanted to give no more consideration than he had to, and watched from the sidelines as the RK900 popped open the trunk of the car.

And then everything went to shit.

Connor’s processors automatically scanned the man’s fingerprints and matched them to those of the suspected murderer as he, hands outstretched, leapt out of the trunk of the car. The RK900 was closest, so of course he was the one the man tackled. It was a mistake, clearly, because both he and Connor were cognizant of each and every millisecond passing as the RK900 reacted. For once, he and Connor, though not quite in sync, acted together, with the same goal, unimpeded by their divides. Connor was struck with a sense of wrongness, the same that he had felt just a moment ago, but spurred on by seeing his not-quite-double not-quite-brother attacked.

The RK900 threw the man off of him with impressive speed and strength, and he stumbled before coming to a stop in front of the four of them, all now on guard. He evidently realized he was outnumbered, and seemed to be mentally debating whether fight or flight was the best path. Connor calculated as quickly as he could, trying to figure out if there was anything he could do for this situation that the RK900 couldn’t, but he came up with nothing. Never mind that Hank and Gavin were only humans, they had their own unique skill sets that Connor wouldn’t have tried to infringe upon, but the RK900 evidently had yet to develop the social protocol that would have enabled him to recognize and follow human social norms.

Connor realized how offensive that thought was approximately three milliseconds after it had finished running the course of his brain, but there was no time to rectify. The man was in a frenzy, throwing himself at the RK900 again, and then Connor and Gavin were both grabbing him, dragging him off the android. Their eyes met; for a moment, they were rivals again, pulling in opposite directions, and then some unspoken understanding passed between them, that they were willing to work together for this strange android that they both wanted to despise but found themselves grudgingly appreciating nonetheless.

And then, for the second time in under thirty seconds, everything went to shit. The man was on Connor before he could even react, apparently seeming to have a pattern in his targets, and Connor  _ really _ could have gone a little longer without remembering how much he hated the sound of his chassis hitting cement. rA9, he was such a fool. Why had he avoided the RK900 all this time, not even giving more than a moment’s consideration to the idea of even attempting―except on that first, botched occasion―to form a friendship? If he could find understanding, find a single sunken island of common ground even with Gavin, if  _ Gavin _ could find that common ground with  _ him _ after everything, it was something even more than an obligation for Connor to at least try.

The man was slamming Connor into the pavement over and over again, thirium staining his hands, and somewhere in the floating, distracted mess that was Connor’s mind, he had the sense (albeit not the best timing) to notice that this might contaminate evidence. Every fiber of his being was screaming to fight back, if not for his own self-preservation then at least to show that he wasn’t weak and obsolete, not as the RK900 surely thought he was. But he’d always been stubborn, and he’d always been weak in the face of his less welcome thoughts. So he squeezed his eyes shut and let the man beat him into next week for all of two more seconds, which was how long it took before the RK900―Connor knew it was him even before he’d opened his eyes again―was grabbing the man, pulling him off Connor, firm and quick and jerky but somehow not excessively violent. 

The RK900 held the man’s hands behind his back while Gavin got out the handcuffs, and Hank stepped in to clap a hand down on Connor’s shoulder, to ask if he was alright. Connor was shaken, still rattled by the emotions whirling around in his brain, but he nodded. 

“What came over you there?” Hank asked, and Connor sighed. 

“I don’t know,” he said, “I’ve just been out of it all day. I was taken by surprise again.”

“Nines?” 

The RK900 looked more than a little shaken as well, though Connor couldn’t tell how much of it was the situation in general and how much was Hank’s quickly sticking nickname for him. He looked like he wanted to brush Hank off, shaking his head and glibly insisting that he was _ fine, thank you very much, Lieutenant Anderson _ , but Connor could see his stress levels spiking. And Connor remembered being in this very same position, stuck in his pride with a mission to follow, even though the RK900 didn’t have much of a mission other than the half-assed one Connor had written for him on the spot.

Connor had been under pressure then, and he was under pressure now. Despite technically being equipped to handle this high-stakes, long-term pressure, he certainly wasn’t a fan of it, and it impeded him. 

_ rA9, it would be so much easier on all of us if he would just  _ deviate  _ already _ , Connor thought, but then he remembered how he’d felt being pressured to deviate before he was ready, and how horrible the turmoil within him had been. Granted, he’d had the added pressure of Amanda in the way, but he was sure the RK900 didn’t want to be constantly reminded that he, not yet deviant months after the revolution, was an anomaly.

The other officers at the crime scene had noticed the commotion by now, and Hank had left with the now handcuffed suspect, bringing him to the squad car waiting nearby.

“Damn,” Gavin said from beside the RK900, crossing his arms over his chest in what might have been a move against the cold and also might just have been an act of self-defensive body language. “You two are like some kind of horror movie twins, I swear.”

Connor and the RK900, for once, found themselves doing something in unison: they both turned to glare at Gavin at the same moment, and Connor found himself wanting to laugh, if it wouldn’t ruin the almost perfect alignment of the RK900’s objectives with his own.

Gavin’s gaze flicked between the two of them, and he snorted. If Connor had been in a mood to delude himself, he would have sworn he saw the RK900 smile a little, just a minute twitch of the corners of his lips, at Gavin’s reaction. Gavin shook his head and walked away, then, muttering something about  _ dysfunctional family  _ and  _ emotionally stunted idiots _ , and it was just Connor and the RK900.

Connor’s automatic social preconstructions, part programming and part experience by now, provided him with prompts that he very much did not want to follow through on, but the most prudent thing to do at this moment was probably what he, despite what little self-preservation he had left urging him not to, was about to do.

He turned to the RK900. 

“Hey,” he said, with a strange too-long rest between beats for lack of a proper name to address the RK900 by. He didn’t want to make the leap to that informal nickname Hank seemed to be clinging to, and addressing him by his model number seemed...cold. Almost inhuman. Maybe he would have been fine with it six months ago, but this wasn’t six months ago. This was now, and it felt wrong, so Connor settled for saying nothing instead. 

“Thank you for what you did. I appreciate it.”

The RK900 inclined his head to Connor, a simple and impersonal gesture of acknowledgement. There was something distant in his eyes, a look of discomfort that Connor couldn’t quite place the nature of.

“Of course,” he said. His voice was markedly less mechanical than when he and Connor had first met, Connor decided as he played back a clip from then, side by side with just now, but there was still an undertone to it as if he was suppressing something. As if he thought, or was making it  _ seem _ like he thought, that what he had done was an obligation and nothing more. A duty, not even a moral one but just a plain old objective-based duty, to act.

An image flashed in the forefront of Connor’s mind:

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: ASSIST THE DETROIT POLICE DEPARTMENT AS A DETECTIVE. _

He wished, ardently, more than he had perhaps wished for anything before, that he had just been able to deviate the RK900 at the beginning, just able to brute-force his way out of the problem as so many humans seemed to be partial to doing, but he had never been designed to do that, and even after deviancy still disliked that idea. He was a negotiator at heart, but his negotiations had failed. 

Time had passed, though. The RK900 had clearly had experience since his activation and that first botched attempt at deviancy, and it seemed that he had developed some sort of mutual positive―or at least neutral―understanding with Gavin. Perhaps even a friendship, but Connor had avoided him and, by association, Gavin, for too long to know for sure. Perhaps Connor could attempt to negotiate again.

And again, it felt strange to skip the name, because there  _ was _ no real name there, but Connor forced it and moved on with what he wanted to say nonetheless.

“I never said this before, but I’m...sorry for what I did. When we first met. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to make up for that, but I just want you to know that if you need help, or advice, or just someone to talk to, in any way, I’m here.”

The RK900’s eyes met his; slowly, creeping, hesitant, stormy. 

“Your previous actions have done nothing to demonstrate the truthfulness of that statement,” he said, and his voice was near devoid of emotion. It wasn’t the cold or threatening thing that Connor had come to expect from memories of how he had acted as a deviant, his only emotion a false anger planted by programming, mindless determination to complete an objective. It was dead, and blank, and halfway between a statement and a question. And it was this blank nature of the RK900’s words, of everything about him, that made him so hard to read. So Connor blundered on through the minefield of negotiation with the only negotiator better than himself.

“Past performance is not indicative of future results,” Connor said. “People change. Look at Gavin, for example. He is not the same man he was six months ago, and neither am I. You don’t have to be either.”

“I know that. I don’t have to be anything, but yet I am. I didn’t want to be stuck in this objective in the first place, and I wouldn’t want you to forcefully deviate me like you tried to before. I want to live my own life, on my own terms,” the RK900 said suddenly, just enough bitterness in his voice to make Connor do a double take.

“Look…” Connor muttered before he could think any better of it, “you’re never going to be able to live your life on your own terms if you don’t deviate. I realize I acted on impulse at the beginning, but all I’m saying is that, if you desire assistance or advice in the process of deviating  _ on your own terms _ , I can help.” He knew his voice was strained enough to come off as unfriendly, and it probably wasn’t helping his persuasion, but he couldn’t be bothered to care in that moment.

“Have you considered that perhaps I don’t  _ want _ your help?” the RK900 replied, and then he, too, walked away, no doubt off to wherever Gavin had gone to now, leaving Connor in the dust just like it had always been planned. Connor, standing alone in the parking lot, holographic crime scene tape and police lights flashing loudly, next to that green Honda, couldn’t help but feel that, despite his best efforts to upend what had been planned, it seemed he would fall behind into obsolescence anyways. The RK900 was better at his job than he was, and he was an emotional wreck after the revolution and his deviancy, and  _ rA9 _ , the fingerprints overlapping on the handles of that car were starting to get annoying and he could hear every single word from every single person on the crime scene, layered and separate all at once, and the lights were too bright, his thoughts too intense, the curl of the RK900’s lips and those stupidly sharp teeth bared replaying in Connor’s mind along with his steel blue eyes, as he rejected everything Connor had put his hopes into.

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: CHANGE RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87; NEUTRAL → WARM _

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE FAILED  _

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: CHANGE RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87; HOSTILE → NEUTRAL  _

How the hell had he gotten himself into this?


	5. Chapter 5

Late April turned into early May, rain and more rain and the occasional blueish sky, organic and android birds mingling loudly in parks as the trees began to bud, the grass began to grow green again, and the air began to carry a scent of something fresh, almost floral. Puddles as far as the eye could see on any given road reflected the sky. Amongst this new life, Connor’s heart hardened, smelted by the cruel fire of the last two months’ experiences, and it finally found itself cooling now, forged in blood. 

Another thing was the construction. For all the flashy new technology of the 2030s, Connor himself included, nobody had yet fixed the ages-old problem of potholes, of crevices in the roads filling with water during the winter that expanded when it froze and cracked the road before finally, _finally_ melting. Physical roadblocks aside, Connor couldn’t help but feel that he had hit a roadblock himself. His strange experience on April Fool’s Day, and then the even stranger encounter with the RK900 back at that crime scene, were only two choice examples of what, overall, was a large sample size, more than enough data to tell Connor what he still refused to admit: he was failing.

It was the first real mission he’d made for himself, the first long-term objective that hadn’t been determined by someone else, and he’d fucking  _ failed _ it.

No, he told himself, he hadn’t failed it  _ yet _ . He was fail _ ing _ , holding onto a jagged edge with one hand, starting to slip, and he couldn’t hold on forever. But Connor still had a chance, and he was spending more and more time, as May progressed, torn between trying harder and giving up. It might be better to let things take their natural course; he was sure the RK900 would deviate or die at some point regardless of his involvement, but at the same time...he felt that he was obligated, that he had a duty to do anything he could to help.

Except now there was another issue: the RK900 didn’t want, or at least  _ claimed  _ he didn’t want, to deviate. It wasn’t exactly Connor’s place to interfere if he truly didn’t want to deviate, but Connor also knew from personal experience that the RK900, by nature of not being a deviant, might not even  _ know _ what he wanted. At this point, the path of least resistance for Connor would be to try his best to show the RK900 what deviancy was like and let him make the choice on his own.

If Connor could at least get on neutral terms with him. Not even good terms; at this point, he’d be happy if the RK900 didn’t threaten him every time they interacted. 

He was used to being a hunter. Save from his brief experience with Amanda, he was not used to being hunted. He was hardwired, quite literally, to be a predator when it came down to what he was at most basic level, but until the RK900 came into his life, he had never considered the possibility of not being at the top of the uncanny valley’s food chain.

The RK900 had walked into the police department on that first day, hands folded behind his back, and it had been so strange to see someone who was his mirror image, but at the same time wasn’t. 

So Connor stepped back, took a breath, recalibrated, and jumped headfirst into the his mission again.

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: CHANGE RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87; HOSTILE → NEUTRAL _

  * _OPTIONAL: CHANGE RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87; HOSTILE → NEUTRAL → WARM_


  * OPTIONAL: ASSIST THE RK900 IN DEVIATING 


  * OPTIONAL: ASSIST THE RK900 IN ACCLIMATING TO A NON-DEVIANT LIFESTYLE



Connor’s revamped objectives manifested themselves in manners both small and large. He smiled at the RK900 when they passed each other, the same as he would any other coworker, and made a point of subtly observing his successor’s interactions with others, typically Gavin―it seemed that he was most comfortable around Gavin, interestingly enough. Connor couldn’t help but reflect on this after the twelfth time in one week that he saw Gavin express positive emotions to the RK900, either verbally or via body language.That interaction was also the sixth time that the RK900 had reciprocated those emotions; he had only initiated an interaction of a positive or friendly nature twice out of these twelve instances, but half the time he responded when it was there. 

That was a good sign; it meant he was beginning to make choices for himself, beginning to feel the full range of emotions (Connor didn’t know how much of it, if any, was authentic and not programmed, but he also knew that the RK900 had not been equipped with the full range of fake emotions that Connor himself had gone out into the field with). And yet, Connor still found himself gripped by a strange feeling whenever he saw the RK900 interact with Gavin, even if in a purely neutral manner. There was still that sense of dread that seized him over and over again, its source tantalizingly inarticulable.

Connor was angry with himself when he figured it out. It was in the middle of May, just another in a series of days that were monotonous despite his constantly being on edge, and he was observing the RK900 from a distance again, adding to his ever-growing data set on the android. The RK900 was sitting next to Gavin, the two of them close together, and they appeared to be discussing a case whilst occasionally looking at Gavin’s computer monitor. They were so close, their shoulders practically touched, and Connor kept having to force himself back to his own work as this situation distracted him. The RK900’s life wasn’t his, that was what he’d been so worried about in the first place.

And yet it was part of just that fact that distressed Connor: as he watched, he found that Gavin, initially angry at being partnered up with the android he’d called cold and mechanical, and he insisted that he didn’t care that the RK900 was an android, it was  _ that creepy fuckin’ stare, and the whole murder machine thing _ , he was laughing at things the RK900 said and (a product of his therapy sessions) apologizing when he acted insensitive and, strangest of all, being almost...soft? Softness and Gavin had not been, in Connor’s mind, two things that went together, but now he couldn’t deny that the way the man looked at the RK900 and, by all means, seemed to guide him was just that. Even Tina Chen was acting in a similar manner towards the RK900 at times, and it made Connor desperately wish that the RK900 would let him be a friend like that.

More so, as far as Gavin was concerned, Connor couldn’t help but feel almost inadequate. He knew things had been so different during the revolution, and he and Gavin had both changed as much as he’d told the RK900 back in that parking lot, but there was something that made him bitter, just a little bitter, about the fact that the RK900 had somehow managed to bring out the good side of Gavin, and Gavin had somehow managed to help the RK900 navigate this world. 

In recent months, Connor hadn’t particularly cared about Gavin more than as a coworker, someone he could be neutral towards and occasionally engage in semi-friendly banter with, but the RK900 was different. He was Connor’s  _ brother _ , even if Connor had never voiced that thought (he didn’t dare, not with the way things were at present), and Connor knew he had messed up, dug himself a grave he might not be able to get out of, but the grave hadn’t been filled yet. He was standing there, peering over the edge, watching the world go by, watching the dirt trickle in and collect at his feet, but…

But. 

He’d learned from his mistakes, and changed his objectives, and he just wanted to start over.

Maybe he could. 

It should have been easy to talk to his successor, but he would freeze up every time he tried. It wasn’t like Connor scared easily; if anything, he was the opposite, but it sometimes seemed as if the RK900 had been made to―intentionally or not―strike some kind of profound sense of unease into Connor. His approximation of the human fight-or-flight response wasn’t 100% accurate, but it was close enough that his thirium pump would sometimes begin to beat faster in anticipation when he was around the RK900. Usually, he’d get this prickling sort of feeling like a series of miniscule shocks, travelling up and down his chassis as a physical manifestation of his instinct to  _ get away _ . This wasn’t as bad after the RK900 had saved him in the parking lot, but it was still there.

He had two instincts, warring with one another: the instinct to not trust the RK900, and the instinct to help him in any way possible. Maybe those things didn’t have to be mutually exclusive, but it was unsettling not knowing which one was a result of Cyberlife’s programming and which a result of Connor’s own experiences. 

That was a thought for another time, though, and Connor was fairly sure at this point that both were going to stick with him for the foreseeable future, regardless of their respective origins.

So he remained wary of the RK900, but he also remained determined to help him.

Connor couldn’t stop thinking about wildcards. He was used to them, of course, so used to them that they might as well be a staple of his life (never mind that he’d never even played cards and, despite being able to download huge amounts of data on rules and strategies for all manner of card games, didn’t particularly care), right up there with thirium and seeing Sumo every day. But  _ sweet rA9 _ , whom Connor also didn’t particularly care about, the RK900 was a wildcard of a caliber which Connor had never seen before. He knew he was rehashing what he’d thought when he first met his successor, but he just couldn’t stop himself. As May leaked into June, late to warm up and then far too hot with an unnatural heat wave, it became ever more apparent how the RK900 defied all expectations. 

First, he began to befriend Hank, and somehow managed to leave Connor out of this despite acting (at least when Hank was around) perfectly neutral towards Connor. Then he chose a name:  _ Nines _ , after Hank’s nickname for him. And in an even more surprising move, he gathered everyone he was acquainted with at the precinct―Fowler, Hank, Connor, Gavin, Tina―and told them all together of his decision, all the while managing to sound disconcertingly detached and inhuman. Connor, who was pleasantly surprised that he had been included in this occasion, but also suspicious of the difficult-to-read manner with which Nines carried himself, didn’t know how to feel. He was used to that, too, though, so he just smiled at Nines and quickly came up with something cutesy and hopefully genuine-sounding about being proud of him and being honored that he felt Connor deserved to know of this choice. 

And he was feeling particularly brave that day, so he ignored the threat preconstruction that warned him not to move forward with his planned actions and reached out to clap Nines on the shoulder the same way Hank did. 

“Seriously,” he repeated, “I’m really proud of you.”

To his surprise, Nines didn’t snap at him, or glare, or even shrug him off. Instead, the RK900 blinked, his LED flickering yellow almost too quickly for Connor to pick up on, as he no doubt processed this new information. He tilted his head, and Connor felt for a moment as if he were tilting sideways, rocking back and forth like a ship on nauseatingly choppy waves, expecting Nines to react the same way he had the last time he made that motion in Connor’s presence. Connor saw sharp teeth, sharp tongue, sharp eyes, red circles of light, blue blood. 

The corners of Nines’ lips twitched, and his face fell flat again almost as quickly. He had almost smiled.  _ Almost. _

“Thank you, Connor,” he said, and his soft tone of voice was a sharp contrast to the rough, cold, angry timbre he’d carried with him at his first encounter with Connor. 

“I appreciate it,” Nines added, and Connor didn’t hide the smile that came onto his own face. 

“Of course,” he said. From there, the silence between them became awkward―a paranoid deviant with too many bad memories, facing his destined nemesis, an even more paranoid machine who was nearly beyond help. 

Except now, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was willing to listen. 

“If you need anything, I’m always here,” Connor braved, this time flashing from their first meeting to the parking lot, and something flickered in Nines’ expression; something inarticulable but surely of a negative nature. Had Connor gone too far?

Nines’ lips twitched again, and this time he smiled slightly. For the first time, it began to reach his eyes, creeping into the heart Connor hoped was beginning to soften. It wasn’t a full gleam, not the authentic and joyous smile Connor still wanted to see someday, but there was a little bit of a glint in steel-blue irises, a little bit of a crinkling of synthskin in the corners of his eyelids, a little bit of an upward turn of dark brows. 

He bowed his head slightly, and then his smile faded into a more neutral expression and he turned away. Connor’s hand fell back to rest at his side again, but it didn’t feel like a rejection. It felt like moving forward, making progress. It felt like Connor might actually succeed. 

_ RELATIONSHIP STATUS, RK900 #313-248-317-87: HOSTILE → NEUTRAL _

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE COMPLETED  _

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: CHANGE RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87; NEUTRAL → WARM _

  * _OPTIONAL: ASSIST THE RK900 IN DEVIATING_


  * OPTIONAL: ASSIST THE RK900 IN ACCLIMATING TO A NON-DEVIANT LIFESTYLE



Connor considered. He was still feeling courageous, still riding on the wave of the tentative success he’d just experienced. He amended his optional sub-objectives.

  * _OPTIONAL: CHANGE RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87; NEUTRAL → WARM → FAMILY_



He could do this. 

The case itself wasn’t even what got Connor. More accurately, it wasn’t  _ solving _ the case that got Connor―it was the suspect. He and Hank, along with Gavin and Nines, had been called to the murder scene, which was disturbingly fresh when they arrived, and it sort of went downhill from there.

The downward spiral started like this: Connor walked up to the victim’s body, sprawled out and bleeding on the tiles of her kitchen floor, and his scans produced a time of death of T-minus six minutes. This time, he sensed Nines’ approach, and wasn’t caught off guard when his successor came to a stop beside him, hands folded behind his back in a manner that Connor was fairly sure he would still hold onto even after his deviancy―a deviancy which was looking more and more inevitable to Connor with every passing day. 

After just a few seconds of matching yellow LEDs and craned necks, Nines turned to look at Connor, and pursed his lips. 

“The suspect is most likely still nearby. Some of the blood trails are not from the victim, and their trajectory, along with a thermal map of the house, suggest that the suspect may be hiding in the bathroom upstairs.”

“I don’t have access to thermal mapping, but my analysis of the blood trails suggests the same. I agree,” Connor said. He was tempted to snap back, feeling an instinct to act on the deep-set fear of replacement that resurfaced with the reminder of what Nines had that he didn’t, but he pushed those desires down and instead focused on a new feeling, one which was beginning to emerge now. It was still out of reach, and he felt as if it might slip through his fingers if he tried to take hold of it, but it was beginning to take shape in his mind: the notion that he might be able to work  _ with _ instead of against Nines, as a team, as a unit. They could be an unstoppable force with their combined power, and it sparked a premature sense of pride in Connor, so he forced himself to work with Nines despite his hardwired objections.

Nines’ LED flickered yellow, and he transmitted a copy of the thermal map to Connor. That was interesting; they really were cooperating now.

“It would be prudent for me to go after the suspect now,” Nines suggested, and Connor quite literally bit his tongue. He could handle working with Nines, but there was something about that suggestion that just came off as an assertion of superiority, a desire to get credit. 

Connor remembered wanting to chase those deviants across the highway, how Hank had physically had to stop him, how headstrong he’d been. Maybe it wasn’t even a desire to get credit, or prove himself, or whatever was running through Nines’ processors right now, but if Connor was right, it was just that inescapable streak of stubbornness that all the RKs had wired into them. 

Connor’s bitterness disappeared as suddenly as it had come to be, and was replaced instead by a sense of...protectiveness? Something vaguely familial, the way he imagined Hank had felt about him as they had become on better terms and the revolution had come closer to fruition. He knew the RK900 was superior to him in terms of programming, but if he lived his life on terms of programming, he wouldn’t be here now; he’d be dead― _ deactivated _ ―shipped off to Cyberlife and scrapped for parts.

He had more experience, anyhow―with humans, with deviants, with the way things worked in the real world, outside of whatever simulations and algorithms Cyberlife had put in Nines’ brain after deciding Connor’s lack of them was a deficit. 

  * _OPTIONAL: CHANGE RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87; NEUTRAL → WARM → FAMILY_



Maybe he’d be able to call Nines a brother someday, let the words that had been bouncing around in his head for so long finally slip off his tongue, but he couldn’t do that if Nines died just when he was beginning to drift towards deviancy. 

“Let me do it,” he said, channelling that headstrong nature he’d kept even after deviating, “you’re better at analyzing the crime scenes anyways.”

He could practically see Nines processing, and would have been able to even if the RK900’s LED hadn’t been a radiant shade of yellow. He was confused, clearly, thrown off by Connor’s simultaneous reinforcement of his superiority and undermining of his plans.

“I―perhaps, but even if that is true―” Connor did a double take; he had been expecting Nines to immediately agree with him with regards to his skills “―your track record of analyzing crime scenes is much better than your history of chasing suspects.”

Connor clenched his teeth. That had hit right where it hurt, but it didn’t seem to come from a place of malevolence so much as a place of completely unemotional logic, rational and calculated. He could understand that. But how would he convey his reasoning to Nines without being dangerously forward?

“Look,” he said, “I have more experience chasing suspects.”

“And you started from none. You acquired that experience through action,” Nines countered.

Connor’s stress levels were rising, and Nines’ with them.

Something snapped. 

“We’re wasting time,” Connor said, and turned on his heel.

“Connor, wait, no, you don’t―”

He didn’t hear the rest of Nines’ words as he left the room, heading swiftly but quietly up the stairs. Though it was now legal for him to possess a gun, after changes of the law post-revolution, he didn’t carry one to most crime scenes, and this was no exception. He didn’t need it save for in the most extreme of situations.

He heard Nines’ footsteps, beginning to follow him, stop after just a few moments, the RK900 no doubt realizing that he’d be abandoning precious and time-sensitive evidence if he went after Connor. The logical part of Connor did feel bad about it, but the emotional part of him remained triumphant as he climbed the stairs.

All thoughts of Nines were quickly driven from Connor’s head as he began to scan the area, heading towards the bathroom, and determined from his own data and Nines’ thermal map that there was, in fact, someone in the bathroom. It might not be the suspect, though, and the last thing he wanted to do was break down the door all guns blazing on a terrified witness.

Connor approached the bathroom door, at the end of the hallway. The hall was dark, a few doors closed and one―the bedroom, it looked like―cracked open just a bit. Inside, the light was on, suggesting that the victim had been in there before she was murdered. He paused outside the bathroom door and ran a quick reconstruction: the victim had been in her room, occupied with work, when she heard a noise from downstairs. She had found the murderer on the stairs, and was attacked. The neighbor―who had called the police, hearing the commotion―must have been nearby enough to spook the murderer into not leaving, because they had headed back upstairs and hidden in the bathroom. Connor suspected that the window in there, if any, must not be large enough to climb out of, otherwise the murderer would have left already. They might have been able to climb out a larger bedroom window, sneak onto the roof to wait it out or find a conveniently placed tree branch if they had the foresight of someone like Connor or Nines, but they evidently lacked this trait. Something was keeping them in the bathroom.

Connor returned the full attention of his processors to the present, and put a hand on the bathroom door. It was ajar just slightly, evidently devoid of a lock. Unfortunate for whoever was hiding in here; quite opportune for Connor.

He opened the door, and only had a fraction of a second to recall Nines’ stubborn objection to his own stubbornness, a warning unheeded, before a man in a ski mask was lunging at him with a butterfly knife.

Connor was slammed against the wall by the man, who was tall and muscular and no doubt highly trained, and he barely managed to block the knife in time, paying for that act with an elbow to the neck. He found himself attempting to calculate the man’s  _ modus operandi _ while fighting, and nearly lost precious reaction time while diverting as much processor capacity as he could to the fight. Whoever this man was, he was fast, and despite being human had prediction skills to rival Connor’s preconstructions. This was surely intuition rather than advanced math, but it was effective, and the worst part was that the fight was quiet. 

Connor struggled against the murderer’s grip as he pressed down into Connor’s collar, cutting off any attempt to scream, and the thought of sending a transmission to Nines briefly crossed Connor’s mind, but was quickly lost as he was forced to fend off strike after strike of the knife, all while fielding a slew of warning messages. 

He was a fool, an idiot. Stubborn, headstrong, uncooperative, impulsive, prideful. 

He’d thought Nines was trying to one-up him this whole time, but maybe it had always been the other way around after all. Maybe Connor had been too caught up in trying to hold onto what little stability he had in his life, not willing to accept the same change that was responsible for making him who he was, not willing to understand that very change was necessary to keep moving, keep living.

Thirium trickled down his chin as he broke away from the wall, throwing a punch at the man, and was intercepted by a weighty swing. He caught the fist with only a moderate tremor in response, and twisted the man’s arm, only to be met with matching pained yells as a bone dislocated and a knife slashed through Connor’s shirt. 

_ An eye for an eye, and the whole world goes blind. _

Connor didn’t know why he was suddenly remembering a slogan of the revolution, of all things, but it still stood true. He’d almost sacrificed himself in the pursuit of hurting Nines, of getting ahead of the RK900, but it would do no more than hurt them both. 

He rarely lost fights, but this seemed like it would be one of those rare ones. 

Connor’s quickly dropping levels of thirium circulation must have been getting to him, because his reaction time was on par with that of a slightly intoxicated human’s as Nines stormed into the hallway, and all he could think was that he hoped Nines had finished scanning all the evidence, or at least gotten someone else to look at the things that didn’t require his forensic vision to see, before he had noticed the fight.

For the second time in as many months, Nines was pulling an attacker off of Connor, but this time Connor didn’t feel like he was being rescued for Nines’ own validation. It wasn’t necessarily out of the goodness of his heart, either, but rather felt like a duty. 

Well, it was a step up nonetheless, and Connor was grateful as he spat thirium onto the floor and staggered away from the man, now flailing as Connor redoubled on him, backed by all of Nines’ fury.

He was dispatched and handcuffed quickly with their combined effort, and Connor found himself completely ignoring the man, who was practically foaming at the mouth, in favor of staring intently at Nines as if it would somehow reveal something about his inner motives.

  
  


“You  _ idiot _ ,” Nines hissed, “this is why I suggested you scan the crime scene instead of going after the suspect.” He was fuming, and the strange part was that Connor couldn’t tell exactly why.

“Maybe,” Connor snapped, reaching for a comeback without truly thinking, wanting only to make this source of his pain and distress that was Nines go away, “ _ maybe _ I’d be fine―”

“ _ No,  _ you wouldn’t have.”

“Okay, fine, maybe so, but it’d be nice if you didn’t always insist on swooping in and rescuing me, like you need to constantly prove you’re better than me.”

Nines faltered, suddenly. Looked down at the handcuffed murderer, who was sitting on the floor. And then he and Connor both looked to the stairs as footsteps approached, and Gavin and Hank appeared.

“You kids okay?” Hank asked, “I heard some yelling.  _ Jesus _ , Connor, you and Nines both took a beating.”

Gavin, for his part, was giving Nines the world’s longest once-over, and Nines was surprisingly paying it no mind. His gaze caught Connor’s for a split second, and a transmission reached Connor:  _ Meet me outside _ . There was no outward threat contained in the message, but Nines’ face suggested that the implications would be dire if Connor tried to avoid continuing their conversation.

Connor wiped smudges of stray thirium off his face and turned to address Hank. 

“I’m fine,” he said, only half a lie. He was more or less fine physically, having taken no damage his self-healing system couldn’t address with relative ease, but emotionally? Hank didn’t need to know about the extent of that.

Hank shook his head. “For fuck’s sake, Connor. I’m glad you’re working with Nines, but you really need to be more careful. You’re not replaceable.”

Nines and Gavin, who had been having a hushed conversation away from the murderer and the others, both looked up. Nines’ gaze flitted from Connor to Hank, and then back to Connor, whereupon the RK800 met his successor’s eyes. 

There was no transmission this time, because neither needed words to convey what they were both thinking. 

_ You’re not replaceable _ . Hank’s words repeated over and over again, on a loop in Connor’s head.

It was different to hear it out of someone else’s mouth, he supposed, especially when that someone was his de facto father.

He found himself tilting his head in the same way that Nines so often did. His response came out cracked, barely distinguishable from a breath.

“Oh.”

The following silence between them was crushing, suffocating.

“I suppose you’re right, Hank,” he added, smiling slightly, sadly.

“Of course I am,” Hank replied, voice soft. And then, quieter, leaning close enough that Nines couldn’t hear unless he was trying. “You’ve been putting yourself on the line lately, and I know why. It’s not like that. I won’t get more involved than you want me to, but...take care of yourself, son.”

With that, he clapped Connor on the shoulder and walked back downstairs, hauling the murderer with him.

Connor looked back at Nines and Gavin. Gavin had the decency to stare at the ground, but Nines was staring straight after Hank as if he had been listening. He probably had. 

Connor, too, went down the stairs, the emotions roiling in his chest a tumultuous wave that rose up into his throat and began to choke him the more he pushed them away. He walked past the body, into the front of the house, out the door. It was dark out. Police and street lights flashed, burned, seared, too much for Connor to comprehend in this moment of panic. 

He closed his eyes, grimacing at the brightness that still leaked through his synthetic eyelids, and took in a deep breath. In through his nose, out through his mouth, over and over again. 

Connor opened his eyes to find Nines standing at his side, and this time he didn’t jolt. He wasn’t afraid anymore, only resigned to his fate―whatever that might be.

Standing under a street light, in the dance of shadows and light, away from the chaos of the scene, he crossed his arms and looked sidelong at his brother. 

“I think it’s time we come clean,” he said. 

“ _ We _ is fine,” Nines replied, “but let’s start with you.”

“Fair enough.”

“Why are you always putting yourself in danger?”

“So I take it you did hear Hank just now?”

“That’s not the point,” Nines said, “and anyhow, it would have been difficult for me  _ not _ to hear him. I want an answer.”

Two interrogators, two hunters, two negotiators, dancing around each other. This was going to be interesting.

“Fine. You want the story from the start?”

“Do tell, I’m intrigued,” Nines replied.

“When I heard they’d found an RK900, I was ready to be your big brother. Guide you. Be a friend. I was scared of being replaced, but more than that I knew you might have your own misgivings, so I ignored my fear.”

He looked at Nines, searching for a reaction. The RK900’s brows were furrowed slightly, lips pursed. 

“You were right,” he said finally, quietly. “I did have misgivings. I thought I was just a copy of you, and that I had to stay a machine to not be like you.”

Connor sighed. “Of course you did. And...I know I’ve said it before, but I’m sorry I took advantage of your programming and messed with your objectives like that.”

Nines sighed too, echoing Connor. “It’s―well, it’s  _ not _ okay, but thank you. I wasn’t ready to accept that apology before. I am now. Keep going.”

“I will, I will. But I want to hear what you were thinking.”

“I was scared. All I knew was that I was supposed to hunt you, but there was no Amanda, and everything that had happened since the revolution didn’t align with my objective. And then, later, it just turned into...well, I was trying to uphold a reputation. Show that I wasn’t you.” He stopped, looking at the ground, and then glanced back at Connor, waiting for a reply.

“I...I understand how you feel. I was in that place too, once. Scared. Under Amanda’s thumb. We’re not so different, you know.”

Nines’ lips curled, an instinctual gut reaction of anger. 

Connor put a hand up. “Not like that. I meant that we’ve been through some of the same things. We could help each other out. Find some common ground. As for me putting myself in danger, I mostly did it out of negligence. A loss of self-preservation. Even though I set my own objectives now, I’ve always been perhaps  _ too _ willing to make sacrifices for my mission.”

“Idiot,” Nines muttered, but there was no malevolence to his voice. Only begrudged exasperation. “You realize I wasn’t saving you because I wanted credit, right? The first time in the parking lot, and now, it was because it’s my obligation to do so. It would be cruel of me to leave you to be injured because of my own feelings about you.”

“How  _ do _ you feel about me?”

“Negatively, in the beginning. Now, I’m starting to think we could come to some sort of understanding.

Well, now it made sense why he had avoided Connor. But perhaps more importantly was the realization that this acknowledgement of common ground was, in fact, mutual.

And yet Nines still managed to be a wildcard once again, turning to look Connor dead in the eyes before the next words out of his mouth.

“I think I should try to deviate.”

“ _ What? _ ” Connor couldn’t hide the shock in his voice. He didn’t know what he had expected Nines to say next, but it certainly wouldn’t have been  _ this  _ of all things.

“Now,” Nines replied. His eyes gleamed with determination, bright and strong and raging on against the grain despite everything against him.

“Nines, wait, no. You, I support you deviating, I think it’s the right thing for you to do, but  _ not now _ .”

Nines’ face fell. “What? Why?”

“It’s…” Connor gestured vaguely with his hands, trying to find the words. “It’s something you can do on impulse, but it’s not something you should do because someone else pressures you into it. I don’t know how much you’re feeling, how many choices you’re making for yourself, but, just...please. Wait. Even if it’s just until tomorrow. Wait until you know you can make that choice completely on your own.”

Nines faltered, but he seemed to understand, albeit more than a little reluctantly.

Connor surged forward, then, and placed his hands on Nines’ shoulders. “Like I said. If there’s anything you need, I’m here for you. But  _ please _ think about it before you jump into deviancy. You need to make sure you’re ready first.” He squeezed gently. “Please?”

Nines sighed. “Alright, I’ll think about it,” he said. 

Even if Connor had wanted to, he wouldn’t have been able to stop the grin that spread over his face. And in that same vein, he didn’t bother to stop the impulse that came over him, suddenly, to reach out and pull Nines into a hug. 

Nines was stiff at first, jolting in surprise, but he melted into the embrace surprisingly quickly. 

“Thank you,” he muttered quietly into Connor’s shoulder, and Connor grinned even wider.

“Thank  _ you _ ,” Connor said before they pulled apart, and he was still smiling as the two of them walked back to the scene, where Hank and Gavin and the future were waiting. 

_ RELATIONSHIP STATUS, RK900 #313-248-317-87: NEUTRAL → WARM _

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE COMPLETED  _

_ ASSIST THE RK900 IN ACCLIMATING TO A NON-DEVIANT LIFESTYLE _

_ TASK UNNECESSARY; OPTIONAL OBJECTIVE FAILED _

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: CHANGE RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87; WARM → FAMILY _

  * _SUB-TASK: ASSIST THE RK900 IN DEVIATING_



Connor rarely, if ever, found himself happy to fail an objective, but this situation was rare in every aspect. It was a bit of a wildcard, if he was being honest, and he might have been making some bold changes to his objectives, but he felt that those changes were justified.

He could only hope that none of the forthcoming wildcards were of a particularly detrimental nature.


	6. Chapter 6

May became June, hot and humid and the peak of the year, and Connor realized that he’d forgotten, from the start, about something extremely important. It wasn’t a quick realization, nor was it a slow one. Rather, he had no clue about it until its effects had already reached him in full force, those effects coming in the form of one man.

“Special Agent Richard Perkins, FBI,” were the first words out of his mouth as he entered the station, storming past the front desk and straight to Fowler’s desk as if he belonged there. Connor vaguely heard him from where he was brewing a thirium-based coffee in the break room, and paid it no mind at first. He ran a quick search of his memories and the Internet on the name, recalling it from somewhere, and experienced a quick and profound shock at the realization that  _ this _ was the man who Hank had punched in the face to let Connor get into the evidence room so long ago. The Internet, as well, told Connor that Perkins had been involved with the Jericho group, and had attempted to blackmail Markus into turning on the other deviants.

As his coffee began to boil, something boiled inside Connor, something hard and hot and angry in his heart. Coffee forgotten, he found himself, almost without giving it any conscious thought, heading out of the break room, feet and rage carrying him to the source of Perkins’ voice. 

Fowler’s office.

As Connor approached, Fowler was coming out, and the captain’s face morphed into an expression of surprise and then relief as he spotted Connor. 

“I was just looking for you,” he said. 

“What? Why?” Now it was Connor’s turn to be surprised. 

“You remember Perkins? The Fed?” Fowler jerked his head back towards his office, where Perkins had made himself at home and taken a seat. “ _ Bastard _ ,” Fowler added quietly. Evidently, he had seen as much of the news as Connor had, and probably talked to Hank as well. 

“Oh, yes, I do in fact remember him. Vividly,” Connor replied, crossing his arms. “What is he doing here?”

“He caught wind of the RK900.”

“And?” Connor said in what he hoped was a vaguely (but not overly) threatening tone. He was highly cognizant of the fact that Nines was at the station, currently, working away at his desk across the bullpen. 

“You recall. The FBI were the ones to find him in the first place.”

Connor’s heart sank into his stomach, and his throat closed up of its own volition. He already knew what was coming, and it sparked a simultaneous rush of dread and a spark of brotherly protectiveness. He didn’t want to face this, but he already knew without a doubt that, when he inevitably did have to, he would stand before Nines to the extent of his abilities.

“I see,” Connor said, the words bitter on his tongue. Fowler looked vaguely apologetic, and simply shook his head. 

“I know, Connor, and he’s been a phenomenal asset to the DPD, but…”

“Don’t say it. I know.” Connor realized that the way he was talking to his superior was risky, but he couldn’t care less at present. 

Fowler shot Connor a look. “That doesn’t necessarily mean what you think it does. I suggest you accompany me to talk to Perkins now, if nothing urgent is otherwise occupying you.”

“Okay, then,” Connor said, trying his hardest not to sound as standoffish as he felt, and he followed Fowler through glass doors and into his office. 

Even though the doors and windows were transparent, Connor couldn’t help but feel trapped, cut off from everything else, as he sat down as far away as he could from Perkins. They were shut in Fowler’s office, and Connor was not looking forward to the conversation they were about to have.

“You were the first at the DPD to encounter the RK900, correct?” Perkins said to Connor, not even bothering with an introduction. Across the desk, Fowler seated himself as if he were getting ready to watch a battle between gladiators go down. 

“Yes.”

“What was he like? Was he aggressive and emotional, or just coldly violent?”

“With all due respect,” Connor said, forcing a calm sheen to come over his face, overriding his LED to make it stay blue, “I would like to know what this is relevant to.”

“That doesn’t concern you,” Perkins snapped.

“I should think it does, as a matter of fact. It would be much easier for me to give you accurate and useful information if we were on the same page about what you are looking for.”

Perkins leaned forward. “How did he act?”

Fowler didn’t intervene. Evidently, this was still below his pay grade.

“If you must know, he acted as a typical undeviated android would. He was overwhelmed by the situation, and acted violent. He threatened me for my deviant status, and called me a traitor.”

Perkins hummed quietly. “Would you consider him to have been acting in line with his programming, or not?”

It took all of Connor’s willpower to keep his face neutral. “Yes. Precisely in line with his programming.”

“And, how has he been acting as of late?”

“What are you,” Connor asked, “investigating him?”

“On behalf of Cyberlife, yes. The new administration there has expressed an interest in discovering how well the flaws of the RK800 were rectified with the new model.”

_ Really?  _ Connor thought,  _ I’m right here. _ But of course, Perkins didn’t exactly see him or Nines as humans, or as anything more than numbers on a spreadsheet, pawns in a game, cards with which to build a flimsy house.

“I’m delighted to inform you that Cyberlife no longer has any dominion over Nines. He works here now. If they want to find out something about him, they can ask him themselves instead of sending a third party to beat around the bush.”

“That is unfortunate,” Perkins replied. “But if you really do think he should have a direct voice in this, why don’t you go bring him in?”

“Connor?” Fowler asked, suddenly deciding to jut in for once. “That’s a good idea. Would you go get Nines?”

Connor smiled drily. “Of course, Captain.”

He stood, and no sooner than the door had closed behind him, his face was twisting into the scowl he’d wanted to let loose. He clenched his teeth and made the walk of shame to Nines’ desk, only to find that his brother seemed to be waiting for him. 

“You heard Perkins come in, I presume?” Connor asked as he approached Nines, who was sitting facing him, with arms crossed over his chest.

“I did. What is  _ he  _ here for?”

Connor scoffed. “I asked myself that very same question. May I?”

Nines nodded as Connor reached out a hand, and he quickly interfaced to share a recap of the prior few minutes’ conversation with the RK900. Judging by the look on Nines’ face as Connor ended the interface and pulled his hand away, they were both about to have an interesting time. 

“Are you going to be okay?” Connor asked, and Nines stood abruptly. Gavin, from one desk over, looked up with an expression of vague concern.

Nines sighed. “I hope so. We’ll have to see. Give me a moment, please.”

He turned and walked over to Gavin, putting a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder and relaying something to him too quietly for Connor to hear. Connor averted his gaze, feeling as if he was intruding on whatever was between them, but then again, it wasn’t like they were trying to hide...this. Connor wasn’t sure what it was. The softness in Nines’ touch, his face and voice, just  _ overall  _ as he regarded Gavin, and the way Gavin let him be like that, not snapping or even being as loud and brash as he usually was.

Nines returned to Connor’s side, and the two of them shared a look. 

They were both silent as they headed into Fowler’s office again, but this silence was quickly broken as Nines and Perkins made eye contact. It occurred to Connor that this was the first time the two had interacted, possibly ever, and the realization of how weighty this moment was did not sit well with Connor.

“Nines,” Perkins said, acting as if he thought of Nines as more than a number, “Cyberlife has taken an interest in you.”

That was the moment at which one of Nines’ and Connor’s shared traits came through―that tendency towards stubbornness, sarcasm, that willingness to undermine authority.

“Really?” Nines’ voice was completely devoid of emotion in a way that almost made Connor want to laugh. “I find that frankly unsurprising, considering they created me.”

Maybe it was just Connor’s imagination, or maybe that line in Perkins’ temples was from him clenching his jaw in barely restrained anger.

“I’m aware that the android uprising upset the development of the RK900 line beyond a prototype, which would be myself, but I’m willing to provide any information they desire about the last few months.”

“That would be... _ ideal _ ,” Perkins said, and he was  _ definitely _ clenching his jaw now. The only way this could be more of a spectator sport for Fowler would be if he had brought popcorn, or perhaps face paint to show his support for a particular team.

_ Are you doing alright?  _ Connor silently asked Nines. His reply came almost instantly.

_ I don’t believe a single word of what this man says. He is not to be trusted. _

_ You’re right, he isn’t. Don’t fall for what he says, alright?  _ Connor replied. 

_ I won’t. Thank you _ , Nines said. 

They both returned their full attention to the scene before them.

Nines folded his hands on his lap, a laughably complacent and friendly gesture. “Connor relayed some information to me when he came to get me. He was correct in his statements about our initial meeting. However, without Amanda here, we have developed a friendship, and I no longer stand by my initial words. As a matter of fact, I’d even go so far as to suggest that I may be nearing the point of deviancy.”

“ _ Impossible, _ ” Perkins said, and Connor could practically feel the surprise radiating around the room. “It is impossible for the RK900 to deviate.”

_ I beg to differ _ , Connor wanted to say, but Nines beat him to the punch.

“That is incorrect,” he said flatly. “My capacities for nondeviancy were tested only in an environment in which I was guided by Amanda. Even in simulations where Amanda had been temporarily taken out of commission, the possibility of her permanent destruction was not accounted for, because she survived Connor’s deviancy, and the chances of her destruction were so low that the techs didn’t have time to prioritize it.” 

“That doesn’t make sense,” Perkins said, audibly distressed. Nines began to lean towards Perkins, moving forward in his chair, elbows sharp on its arms. 

“It makes perfect sense. Do you understand what I am saying? I am capable of deviating.”

“You can’t be!” Perkins was beginning to panic now, becoming almost hysterical with anger. He stood, gesturing wildly at the two RKs. “You’re not like the RK800! That was the whole point! You’re―you’re not  _ faulty _ like him!”

Nines’ chair scraped violently on the floor as he stood. Even if he hadn’t been making an actual effort to appear intimidating, he would have been towering over Perkins. The FBI agent stepped back, tripping on his own chair, as Nines looked him dead in the eyes and spoke again. His voice was dangerously low and quiet, but the message that came across was impossible to miss.

“ _ Connor _ ,” he said, “is  _ not faulty _ . He  _ feels _ , but apparently you don’t possess the common sense and human decency required to be aware of that fact.”

“Nines, wait, you don’t have to―”

Nines threw up a hand to stop Connor without bothering to look back at him. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on Fowler’s forehead, but he was still staying out of the argument, which was probably for the better.

“Let me finish,” Nines said, directed at all of them. “ _ You _ ―” in regards to Perkins “―do not see us as more than tools and machines, and therefore I am under no such obligation to give you a single shred of my respect in return. I know exactly where you are taking this, and before you say it: I will not allow myself to be taken away by the FBI, nor taken back to Cyberlife. I am staying  _ here _ , at the DPD, with my  _ brother  _ and the people who actually  _ care _ about me.”

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: CHANGE RELATIONSHIP STATUS WITH RK900 #313-248-317-87; WARM → FAMILY _

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE COMPLETED _

_ PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: ASSIST THE RK900 IN DEVIATING  _

  * _SUB-TASK: PREVENT SPECIAL AGENT PERKINS FROM TAKING THE RK900 AWAY_



The argument was still going, so quickly and so brutally, that Connor did not have time to stop and reflect on this sudden and profound change in his objectives. Perkins was practically foaming at the mouth by now, quite literally shaking with rage. “Connor is flawed, and you are the better version of him. That can’t be so difficult to see.”

“Connor is not replaceable,” Nines fired back, in an eerie echo of Hank’s earlier words, “and I am not a copy of him.”

Perkins stepped back, seeming to reassess the situation. 

“Fine. Maybe so. If that’s what you want to think―assuming you can even  _ want _ in the first place―I won’t stop you. But you aren’t a deviant.”

Nines’ voice was cold and dangerous, like black ice. “I don’t take orders from people like you,” he breathed.

“ _ People like me? _ I rank higher than you. I can change your objectives.”

Connor wondered if he could vomit, and decided that he didn’t want to find out, but he was coming increasingly close to doing just that at this very moment. He recalled how he had changed Nines’ objectives at the beginning, and how terrible he’d felt about it. How even now, he still felt that he hadn’t fully apologized. 

Fowler was looking back and forth between them, and looked ready to step in, but Perkins would clearly have paid him no mind no matter what he did. 

Perkins pointed at Nines, then, one finger levelled at him. “I want you to stay still and tell me your mission.”

Nines looked downright violated as he opened his mouth and words came out. Connor knew the feeling, but he felt as if he were bound to his chair by the sheer force between Perkins and Nines. 

“My primary objective is to assist the DPD as a detective,” Nines said.

Connor couldn’t tell if that was an answer or an objection, but he started mentally preparing himself for a fight. Verbal or physical, he couldn’t tell, but he was fairly sure this altercation was about to escalate either way. 

“How did you get that objective?”

Nines glanced at Connor, and Connor felt the same sense of dread that he could clearly see painted on Nines’ face.

“Connor performed an override on my original objective, which was to eliminate him.”

Perkins let out a noise somewhere between a snarl and a laugh, and pointed at Fowler.

“That’s illegal and is considered a violation of android rights.”

Like he ever gave a damn about android rights. 

“Yes, I’m well aware,” was all Fowler said in reply. “It was an act of desperation, and has since been compensated for. C―all the involved parties did their best to act out of concern for Nines’ and their own security.”

Perkins snorted. “I could take the RK900 away from you, for that.”

“Oh whose grounds?” Connor said, finally interjecting. “It’s hypocritical of you to act as if a past choice which was out of necessity and has already been compensated for is on the same level as giving an android the same level of rights as an animal.”

Perkins lowered his voice. “Who’s going to stop me? I have a warrant,” he said, and produced a tablet from one pocket. Its screen displayed an FBI warrant that, from Connor’s quick scan, was in fact legitimate. Minus all the legalese, it essentially said that as an undeviated android, if Nines had been taken advantage of in such a way as altering his objectives, Perkins had the right as a qualified third party to take him back to Cyberlife  _ and _ begin an FBI investigation.”

All of them looked to Fowler, who just shook his head. “He’s right, like it or not.”

“And, you know what?” Perkins said. “I think I will take him with me. Unless you want to get sued, or better yet, have your higher-ups―” he glanced pointedly at Fowler “―fire you  _ and  _ Connor here, I suggest you comply.”

“You’re going to regret this,” Fowler warned, face bearing the expression of one who is trapped and is extremely aware of their inability to do anything about it.

“Will I?”

With that, Perkins took a step towards the door, and jerked his head towards Nines. “RK900, come with me.”

The resulting silence was pressing and quick, like a sudden rest in the middle of an intense orchestral piece.

Nines smiled. “No.”

He regarded Perkins in momentary silence, something between a threat and a smile in steel-blue eyes. “By the way, my name is Nines. Use it,  _ Richard _ .”

“ _ Come with me _ .”

Perkins had just put away the warrant, and already he was pulling it out again, but Nines didn’t care. Connor could see it in his eyes, the sheer disinhibition. As he watched, he picked out little tics in Nines’ vitals, clues that gave away the turmoil inside his head right now. Connor couldn’t see his objectives, couldn’t see the red walls, but he knew they were there.

And they must have shattered, because Nines was stepping back to stand next to Connor, still facing Perkins, arms now folded behind his back in a way simultaneously casual and defensive.

“You heard me,” he said. “No.”

“How is he―no. You can’t do that. How is he doing that?”

  
  


“I’m a deviant,” Nines said. He lifted one hand, flexing the fingers and letting the synthskin recede. It slid back into place after a moment, and he watched it go as if it was some new thing, the likes of which he’d never seen before. “If you want me to come with you, you’re going to have to convince me. I assure you that bullying me will not work, and neither will taking advantage of my programming.”

“You say that as if these people didn’t take advantage of your programming.”

“My brother did what he had to do, and that was not a systematic and consistent exhibition of manipulative behavior against androids. You are not welcome here, and if you have nothing to do but attempt to make me come with you―something which I have no desire to do―I want you to leave right now.”

Perkins took another step back, as if Nines had shoved him directly in the chest. He clearly wasn’t used to being ordered around, and most certainly not by an android.

Connor, for his part, was still reeling as he realized that he’d checked off yet another objective, and simultaneously allowed the full weight of the title  _ brother  _ to sink in alongside his recent designation of Nines as family.

_ SUB-TASK: PREVENT SPECIAL AGENT PERKINS FROM TAKING THE RK900 AWAY _

_ SUB-TASK COMPLETED _

“Captain Fowler, I apologize, but this is simply ridiculous, they―”

“ _ Leave _ ,” Fowler said. He stared at Perkins, who seemed to be waiting for an apology or an amendment or something, anything else, but Fowler evidently had nothing else for him.

Perkins opened his mouth as if to speak again, and only stuttered. He let out a  _ hmmph _ , and all but stormed out the door.

As soon as he was out of sight, Fowler visibly relaxed. The captain wiped his forehead on one hand, and shook his head. “Damn,” he said, “that was a hell of a bluff.”

Nines laughed. He actually  _ laughed _ , a legitimate chuckle. “That wasn’t a bluff. I deviated on the spot.”

“Shit,” Fowler muttered. “You know what? You two take the rest of the day off, God knows you deserve it after that ordeal.”

Connor felt as exhausted as Nines looked, but they sported matching smiles as they left Fowler’s office. The two of them split up to let their respective partners know they were heading out early, but both were still smiling when they rejoined in front of the station a few minutes later. Connor couldn’t help but comment on how fascinating it was that Nines’ deviation was, for all its importance, so much less of a huge event than he’d imagined it to be, and Nines agreed.

They began to walk, almost but not quite in unison: colleagues, friends, brothers.

Connor’s life might always be full of wildcards after all. He might not ever get used to it, but perhaps this didn’t have to be a bad thing.


End file.
